Don't Leave Me Now
by maya295
Summary: ONE SHOT: From 'Bombshells' to 'Moving On,' I wanted to fix the awful Huddy train wreck and UNDO the finale! At least try...  based upon the lyrics AND melody of the Pink Floyd song 'Don't Leave Me Now' - Rated M for language & dark themes


_Hi everyone!_

_House season 7 finale just aired and saying I'm appalled is an understatement. _

_The news of Lisa Edelstein leaving the show pained me a lot when I heard it, but now, I've come to a stage where I think that's probably for the best._

_There're surely still many stories to explore from where the show left House, but they would obviously not have allowed to give House and Cuddy the dimension they deserve and which Hugh Laurie and Lisa Edelstein so brilliantly impersonated during those past seven years._

'_Moving On' just basically destroyed it all. mercilessly._

_So, I wanted to undo the finale, but also, what led to it. That's why I wrote this one shot._

_A month ago, before I knew how the finale would end, I'd started to write this one shot but couldn't finished it. Then after Monday, I felt the urge to write again and that's where my inspiration led me._

_My story is based upon the Pink Floyd song: "Don't Leave Me Now" from the movie 'The Wall' (NB: if you can, listen to it, it's a great song, that imo perfectly reflects the atmosphere I wanted to depict in that story.) It starts just at the end of 'Bombshells' and it goes up until after the last moment of Monday's finale…_

_I really hope you'll like reading it, as much as I liked writing it. at least, it turned out to be extremely soothing for me to let it out and grab the opportunity to make things right again…_

_[NB: to create a specific narrative rhythm, the lyrics of the song are included in italics inside the story]_

* * *

><p><strong>~~ DON'T LEAVE ME NOW ~~<strong>

"_I'm sorry."_  
>"<em>No. No, no, no. Don't. Don't…"<em>  
>"…<em>I thought I could do this…"<em>_  
><em>"…_Don't, _**_please_**_ don't…"__  
><em>"_Goodbye House."_

You caressed my cheek, the touch of your hand so delicate on my stubble. You looked me right in the eyes, with a sorry gaze. And you left. You left _me_.

And I died.

Not for real, no, which is worse; because then I wouldn't have been able to feel how much it hurt even after my own death.

You've walked away and the sound of your footsteps have long ago stopped to echo into my empty hallway but I still stand at my doorsill, with a distraught face, looking nowhere, looking beyond the void you left, searching for your silhouette, hoping in vain to catch the sight of its shadow.

You're not coming back, are you? You're not going to save me this time. Why would you?

_Ooh babe, don't leave me now-_

I walk to my bathroom. No, I crawl there, like a cockroach; like a parasite. I limp, and I can feel every nerve ending inside my body twitching. My leg hurts. My head hurts. My chest hurts. I ache. I want to stop the pain, you know? I never wanted anything other than to stop the pain…

I have a bottle of pills. I have resources. I got it when you were lying in that hospital bed, waiting for me. Instead, I went to the pharmacy and I bought this - orange promise of oblivion – to help me handle the horrific thought of losing you. I have no courage. But I have fears. And now, I have no one…

_Don't say it's the end of the road-_

I hold the pills, two of them, there inside my hand. Double dare me! Have I got something to lose? Does it matter anymore? I swallow them dry. They find their familiar way inside my throat and I'm almost not ashamed of my cowardice. It takes ten minutes for the drug to numb me. It takes ten minutes to not feel. But it will still take forever to be fine, because I'll never be fine again. I was never going to be fine anyway.

You said it didn't matter.

And I believed you.

I swear to every inexistent god that I've never wanted to prevent a train wreck from happening so badly. A forlorn attempt, as pathetic as my love for you is incurable. I'm screwed up but with you, I was learning to forget it. A little. You made me a better man, you improved my human skills. I was not unbearable to myself anymore. I was not unbearable to you. All this time, you helped me fix myself. And yes, I really believed I was fixing myself.

_Remember the flowers I sent-_

I caressed every inch of your body with a feather touch. I kissed every silky centimeter of your skin with greedy lips. I lay awake at night, for hours, listening to you breathe. I became addicted to the feeling of you nestled against me. I became addicted to your smell. I drank all your juices. I lick every bead of sweat that formed in droplets and slid between your breasts after we made love. I became addicted to your flavor. I know the meaning of every move you make. I know the significance of every one of your gazes. I know your weaknesses. I know your strengths. I know when you're mad. I know when you're shy. I know when you're going to come. I became addicted to the sound of your voice, whispering my name. Crying out my name. I let you dig your nails into my flesh.

And I know the lines of every scar you left as proof of the lustful moments we shared by heart.

Have I not treated you right? What did I do wrong?

I put up with your mother. I watched over your kid. I forgot my priorities. I let people die. I didn't even care. **You**. There never was anyone else but _you_. Every day, every minute of the day, every decision I made, I made it thinking about you. I wanted to please you. I wanted to protect you. And it was never good enough, but l kept on trying. Struggling. Trying again.

And failing.

I'd told you I would. I'd told you you'd break my heart. I'd told I would never get over it. And you said no. You refused to let me leave while it was still time. You made me believe in us even more. You let me have faith.

_I need you, babe-_

I don't know how many pills a day I'm popping now. Too many probably, but I don't care. I feel nothing. It's the only luxury I have left. At some point, I flew away. Far away from you. I was stupid enough to think I could forget you. I'm trying though. In every woman's arms I can find. In the most loathsome way there is. I lay some dollars on the nightstand and they slide under the sheets of my hotel's bed, one after the other. I don't even look at their faces. I don't even pay attention to their bodies. But I rub their feet in the bathtub, I caress the length of their thighs, I hold their hands by the pool, I nibble their earlobes. I order champagne and strawberries, and massages and they parade in my room. I pay to have the illusion I can still make a woman happy. They do that very well. They laugh and they sigh, always in the right moments.

One day, as I'm absent-mindedly shagging a brunette, suddenly she looks up at me with a smile and between the raven strands of her hair, stuck to her forehead, I think I recognize your face. I see _you_. It merely lasts a second, but the shock hits me so hard I push her away from me brutally and I lean over the side of the bed to puke on the carpet floor. After that, I make sure to choose them absolutely different from you: blond, brainless, ebony, docile; the less they look like you, the safer I feel. Disposable fuck, that's all it is.

It lasts a week, or two. I don't know. I'm losing track of time. Each day that passes by, I feel number than the previous one. It helps me stomach our first encounter when I go back to work. The first time I come across you, I'm perfectly faking indifference. I'm quite proud of myself, especially when I can see the look of hurt in your eyes. It's even better than the day you overheard me on the phone, while I was soaking in the tub with Tuesday girl, or Friday… I knew you were in that room. And I knew exactly how you reacted. I know how you turned around and left. But I couldn't see you and it was not even half as cruel as I intended it to be. It didn't soothe me. I imagined you walk away in the hallway, with your head hanging low and I couldn't even get one ounce of satisfaction out of it.

The moment I can finally see the pain and guilt all over your face, I wait for it to bring me some relief, some sense of payback, and it doesn't. I feel lame. I feel transparent. I feel insignificant. Your pain, so infinitely more dignified than mine, still manages to make me feel like crap. I can't win this battle. I don't even know if it's a battle I want to fight anyway. I'm not sure I know what I'm fighting for. I just need you to notice me, because I'm popping so many pills and I'm drinking so much alcohol, I'm not sure I exist anymore, and you've always been the only one who was able to make me feel alive…

I park monster trucks outside your hospital. I drive segways in the hallways. I want to be larger than life. I want to be a bigger jerk than the one you think you were right to dump. I want my punishment to make sense. And I want you to feel torn inside, ripped apart, and broken. Just like I do.

Have I not proven to you a thousand times before that I was capable of doing horrible things to you? Have I not warned you that I would?

_To put through the shredders in front of my friends-_

I've found the perfect stabbing, the perfect hard-hearted revenge. I never thought you'd come but you're here. I'm marrying some girl, at my place, right in the middle of my living room, where we, you and I, have built memories together. And I'm doing it _in front of you_. I chose the bride like I could have chosen any other ones. It really doesn't matter. It doesn't matter at all. She needs a green card, I need to hurt you. I'm not lucid enough to realize how recklessly irreversible it may be anymore. I'm not even thinking beyond those few awkward minutes where I stand there, sliding a ring around her finger and searching for your gaze, to make sure you really see me doing it. I'm waiting for it to crush you. And I'm waiting for it to bring me some peace. I thought that watching you suffer would equalize the level of pain between us. How more fucked-up could I be?

You leave the room before I say the 'I do.' And once again, the worst stabbing is for me. I feel horrible. More horrible than I ever imagined I could feel. There is no redemption in seeing you hurt. No consolation. No nothing. I still love you, and watching you ache in pain is a never-ending torture for me. In the evening, when all the guests have left, and the room is empty again, my… wife tries to be nice, and cuddles up against me. I guess she thinks she owes me and that her body is the retribution I'm expecting for doing my part of the deal. But every move she makes to arouse me just makes me sick. I don't want to taste any other woman's lips. I don't want to touch any other woman's skin. I don't want to breathe in any other woman's neck. I want you. I miss the curves of your body nuzzled up against mine.

I miss you so much.

_Ooh babe, don't leave me now—_

I'm leaving. There is no other solution. I can't stand the thought of you so close to me and so inaccessible at the same time. I'm driving my car on long, winding roads that look like another country. I feel like I'm in a new world, where I make out the possibility that it could finally hurt less. I'm slowing down on the pills to try and burst my drug-induced bubble and come back to reality. When I do, it's a slap in the face: deaths, prisons, anniversaries that will never be celebrated…

Still, I'm coming back to you. I always come back. That's not a choice I can make. Without you, I have no job. Without you, I have no reason to put one foot in front of the other. After all the excruciating pain you've caused me, you're still the reason why I wake up in the morning. And you're still the one I dream of at nights. That's why I'm trying not to find myself face to face with you too much. Yes, I keep avoiding you because I still don't know how to not feel desire for you anymore. When I see you, there's a wave growing inside me and commanding me to hold you in my arms; kiss you, make love to you. Wouldn't it be odd if I did, now that you no longer want me in your life?

But you, you're so brave and strong. And determined. You never seem to doubt. Shouldn't we have goodbye sex? Why can't we make it one more time, just once? Why won't you let me hold you, nestle between your thighs, and rock you with the tidal rhythm of my hips again? Is it really goodbye, for good? You never seem to have any regret. I want to be like that, too. Why can't I be like you, detached and unemotional? What's your secret to feel nothing?

_How could you go?_

I play your game. I pretend to be fine. I help your mother. No, I help you. I behave, a little bit my way but still, for your benefit. At the end of the day, the weight is lifted off _your_ chest. And mine is heavier than ever. That's just another thing I do that gets unnoticed. You don't see me fix things, you only see me break them. And that's the moment when I realize I can't make you change your mind about me, because you won't. I'm not the right guy for you. I'm not good enough. I'm not nice enough. I'm not stable enough. I'm not caring enough… I'm trying distractions, meaningless, ridiculously stupid distractions to focus my attention on something other than you. Wilson is a very good provider in that area. I almost forget how much I suck, that you didn't give me another chance, or why I probably didn't deserve it.

Self-loathing brings my pain back: I follow my old, same miserable pattern with an obstinacy that never fails to reach its goal. With the pain, the temptation to up the pills' dosage becomes more insistent. I know I shouldn't but it's a lot of pain. A LOT, okay? Each time I stare at one of those snow-white tablets inside the palm of my hand, I think about Mayfield. I think about why I ended up there. Three months of my life, to erase twenty years of hopelessness and be less of a loser. _For you_. To make you love me. To make you see me differently, to give you reasons to think I was a worthy man.

I paid the price of that delusion the hard way: I paid it with my sanity. But I had you. _Eventually_, I had you… Now, what do I have left? Memories of us to cherish? Bullshit! I don't want to cherish your image when it would only serve to remind me that you're not here anymore; I don't want to remember us when it would only help to justify your cold-hearted decision to break up with me because it was my fault.

I don't want to lose my mind again. I don't want to go back in square rooms where they would chain my soul. It's a vicious circle, it's a trip in Hell and I know the road that leads there so well! I'm in familiar territory: insane, self-destructive choices. But it's not my fault, it's not my fault! I'd love to have another option. It's just that I don't. I try to obsess over my medical cases but the passion is gone. I don't care. I don't feel. Life is insipid without you, nothing is beautiful enough, mysterious enough, challenging enough to catch my attention and make me forget the throbbing pain in my leg. I've stolen some unapproved, risky drugs in the lab and I'm injecting myself with hope. Stupid, irrational and suicidal hope, but hope nonetheless. I've become one of those lab rats, which fate is as uncertain as the project their probable death will serve to invalidate. Except for the size of my cage, which is slightly bigger, I'm just like them: cornered, condemned, and sacrificed.

And yet, it works. At first. It's so un-hoped for, I should have known it was not going to last. When did the good things ever last in my life? Nothing that could bring me a little bit of happiness, or relief ever lasts. The rats? They're all dead, just like that, in one night. All of them. And I'm next for sure, because that's how it always ends: the light never shines long enough to guide me out of this land of misery. You, with the enthralling power of your halo, you almost succeeded. I wanted to follow your light and get out of it. I was almost there. _Almost_. But I'm a waste. I feel pathetic. I'm ashamed of the mess I did with myself. And now, I only have myself to fix it.

_When you know how I need you, need you, need you—_

I didn't want to call you. I swear I'd tried every other numbers before. I didn't want you to see me like that, drenched in my own blood, half-naked in my bathtub, half-conscious… half-alive. But what could I do? You're destined to be my savior, my last chance, that's how it is and there's no point in trying to fight the irony. I'm not the one who chose to burden you with it. Life did. Twenty-five years of entwined fates, spent pushing each other away and pulling back. Pull back. I'm sorry it has to be in that circumstance this time. I didn't mean to… You brought your daughter and, as horrible as it makes me feel, a part of me can't help thinking it means you were alone in your house. Just this thought makes it suddenly less hard to breathe. Yes, I find comfort in the idea that you're still alone, after me. That nobody warms the sheets of your bed. Is it bad?

It means I meant something. It means you haven't forgotten me completely… Except, it means you have no one else but you to rely on. _Because of me. _I messed up with your life just like I predicted I would. But there were times when we were doing good, right? Please Cuddy, tell me there were times when I made you happy. You have no idea how much I'd want to trade that sorry smile on your face for a spontaneous burst of laughter, just one more time. Remember when we used to laugh together? Remember the incredible sound it made? Where did it all go?

You stay with me through the entire night, until you make sure someone is going to take care of my slaughtered leg, until you make sure it is safe for you to go. And, while I lay down on that gurney, in the middle of the hallway, and you sit across the way on that bench, looking so tired, so worried, so guilty and so beautiful, I want to believe there's another reason for you to stay. In the morning, they take me away to the O.R and you turn your heels to leave. The sight of your back, when you walk away is the worst memory I have of you. That's a vision I want to forever forget. It tightens my throat and I can't breathe. I call after you.

You know, I didn't lie when I said I trusted you and no one else, to do what's right for my leg. I don't want any arrogant butcher who calls himself a surgeon to try and fix it their way. I am not an experiment. And I want to keep my leg just like it is, at all cost. You know that, better than anyone, don't you? So I didn't lie when I said I trusted you, but… maybe I said it to make you stay longer. When I ask, I measure the duration of your hesitation; if it doesn't last too long, then perhaps everything's not lost. Perhaps, you'll be here tomorrow, holding my hand?

You close your eyes and you exhale a heavy, resigned sigh. The sound of your footsteps, following behind me, while I'm being pushed through the exit door toward surgery is exactly what I need to hear before the anesthesia slowly numbs me into sleep. For the first time in weeks, I'm not afraid to let go. You'll be there for me, you'll always be there for me, and that reassuring certainty is more soothing than any pain killer I could take.

The next morning… you're not here. Wilson is. I smirk and I joke to pretend everything is perfectly fine, minus everything that's not, which is… just basically my whole life. Of course, I'm not fooling him. I'm only fooling myself. I'm the only stupid, miserable failure I can still delude with my own lies, about what I want, about how I feel, about what I really need.

_How can you treat me this way? Running away?_

I need to move on. Metaphorically, that is. The truth is, I don't really want to be over you. I am never going to be over you, but I've realized you won't take me back, especially if I keep wallowing in self-pity like I do. Maybe you were right to leave me after all. What I need is to grab hold of myself, be responsible, take care of my issues and stop burdening everyone around me with my problems. Remember when I'd asked you if you thought I could fix myself and you'd answered you didn't know? Now, I want to prove you that I can. You're not going to take me back and it's time for me to accept it, but at least, I can find a way to make you like me again…

I gathered random items that belong to you and that you'd left at my place in a box. You never claimed them back and they never bothered me, so there's no doubt that this is a pretext; a symbolic gesture. Still, you don't get it. I want a clean slate, I explain. Let's go back to the time when there was nothing between us, if that time ever existed… I can see you're not completely insensitive to the effort. I can see you don't really believe it'll succeed either but I can see you're trying to give me that chance. In two days, we meet more often than in three months. Every time we talk, and the world doesn't end, I feel like I've managed to take one step away, farther from the edge. I'm doing the right thing. I'm doing what's right. And each time you leave the room and I'm alone again, I take more pills than necessary to help me convince myself that I am.

I want to take it slow because I'm not used to dealing with relationships other than in that screwed-up way I'm familiar with but you push me to confess every one of my feelings in one go and I don't know what to say. I don't know how to give you what you want. How am I going to make it if you don't give me enough time to accept reality, how am I going to redeem myself if you force me to hide behind lies again? I'm over you, I'm not over you. I want to move on, I want you back in my life. I'm perfectly fine, I feel like crap. I give you all and nothing at the same time and once again I rely on you to decipher my truths and accept my flaws. You smile. Are you with someone else? Do you have somebody in your life? You say no and I smile, too.

I should have noticed the slightly embarrassed wiggle of your shoulders. I should have understood the irremediable nature of our situation. You want out. You want a reason to clear your conscience of all the guilt that fills it because of the mess you left behind when you walked away. And you want to know how I feel…

Except that, how I feel is indescribable. How I feel is a combination of fear, self-confidence, doubt, contempt, empathy, pain, pride, self-consciousness and a million of other perfectly contradictory emotions. How I feel is hurt, lost, and useless. I spend hours in my apartment, sitting on a chair, contemplating my options. Does the way you squeezed my hand still mean anything? Does your sorry opened a door or closed it forever? If I came to your house now would you let me in?

_Ooh babe, why are you running away?_

I'm standing there, dazed, outside your house, looking in. Through the window of your dining room, I catch a glimpse of you. I came because among all the things left unsaid between us, I'd thought there was one that said you had forgiven me; one that said you trusted me as much as I told you I trusted you. One that said you'd never lie to me. How can you demand me to make so many efforts and never reciprocate? You swore to me you didn't want me to change, but who I am never was what you wanted. And you kept lying to yourself and to me about it. Do you have any idea what it cost me to try to be the one you wanted? Was it even worth it? Did you even know who that is? And if you didn't, how was I supposed to know that myself? You've toyed with my emotions. You let me believe you had faith; you let me believe you would fight for us, that you would really give it a try.

There's a man with you in your house. You said you didn't date anybody and there's a man with you in your house. Who he is, I don't know. If he means something to you, I don't care. If, maybe, you just met him doesn't matter. There's someone in your house, and you give him your smiles, you give him your attention, while somewhere outside, there's another man, me, who you don't give a fuck about but whose hand you squeezed a few hours before, changing every blurry, unsure perspective of future he could have. And I, the other man outside, had chosen to believe that this meant something. But no. It's just the same old song, as always. Nothing is ever gonna change: I'm always gonna be in pain, and you're always gonna make me think that I can fix that, and you're always gonna make me hope that it'll be worth it. And when I'll have suffered and bent and done everything you want and more, there's always gonna be someone else to whom you're gonna smile on the other side of a window through which I will watch you in silence. Someone that's not me.

I went to Mayfield and I suffered like hell there. Fuck, I did it for you! And when I came back, there was a man with you. I've watched him touch your hair, I've watched him hold your child, and I've watched him put his arms around your shoulders, through glass doors. But I've waited. I swallowed back my pride. I've waited for you, for years. I've waited for you all my life while you, you didn't even waited for me more than three months. And today, you're doing it again. I'm here, standing outside your house, recovering from surgery, holding a hairbrush in my hand. I laid my soul bare for you and there's a man inside you house, whom I'm watching through the window of your dining room. I never was inside, was I? In fact, I always stood there, on the wrong side of the wall, outside the intimacy of your home, because you never really let me in…

It's not rage, or recklessness. It's not madness either. I don't know what it is, other than an urge maybe, sudden and violent that commands me to force my way in, to be inside, for once, just to be able to see how it feels, to see if it's warmer than outside, like I think it is; to see if it will heal me like I think it can. To see if you'd smile to me there like you were smiling to him. I launch the car at full speed and it doesn't make any rational sense but it feels like the only thing I can do. I wanted you to notice me. I had sex with dozens of hookers, I drove monster trucks, I married a perfect stranger, I cut open my leg… And there you are, standing on your two feet. You're moving on. You still smile. You still enjoy life. How can you still enjoy life?

I drive through the wall, and I tear down the window and hundreds of shards fly in the air. The crash is making a terrible racket, and everything in the room explodes in pieces. The furniture, the chandelier, the chairs, the sideboard, me, you… I didn't even think you could be hurt, nor did I think I could be injured. But it doesn't matter if we die, my love. At least we'd die together and it'll stop hurting. It'll stop…

? - ? - ? - ? - ? - ? - ? - ? - ? - ? - ? - ? - ? - ?

"House?... House?"

That sensation. That softness… I blink a few times and I open my eyes slowly. I'm lying in a hospital bed. My throat is dry. I have trouble swallowing. I'm sore, and dizzy.

And you're here.

And you're holding my hand.

"Dammit House, I…"

Your eyes throw flashes of anger at me, but I instantly recognize that imperceptible and unmistakable mix of worry and care that lies underneath and it takes me aback.

"What happened?"

"You acted like an idiot, that's what happened."

You haven't let go of my hand; I tilt my head down and I stare at our fingers interlaced above the pale sheet. I cautiously slide my hand out of yours, while I keep staring a little longer at the now empty cradling curve of your palm where mine was resting just the second before; and then I look up at you.

"No. I mean, why are you here?"

You puff, and you glare at me with a warning gaze.

"Don't play that game with me, House."

"There is no game." My eyes suddenly become moist, almost in spite of me.

"I'm not going to forgive you that easily just because you look at me with puppy eyes…" you say with a frown, "You stood me up House. You let me go there, alone, while you were getting drunk and stupid…"

My eyes widen in shock as confusion invades my head and it feels like my brain is throbbing inside my skull. I abruptly lift the sheet to look at my leg and I dig my fingers into the flesh of my right thigh. It hurts but… it hurts just like it usually would. And I don't have any bandage of any sort around it. My chest tightens, and my palms get sweaty. I gulp.

"What happened?" I repeat, but this time, the tone of my voice is grave and you perceive the panic behind my watery eyes.

You shot a quick glance at the heart monitor, which undoubtedly informs you that my heartbeats are speeding up and you grab my hand again.

"Are you okay?" you ask apprehensively while you touch my forehead and the side of my skull with your other hand. It stings a little and I realize I must have stitches on my temple.

"Are we…" I swallow back the lump that formed inside my throat. "Are we still together?" I rasp, almost inaudibly.

"Hey," you slide your hand to my cheekbone and you delicately caress me with your fingertips. "I'm mad at you, ok? But… not mad enough to break up with you because you've got drunk… without me." You pout and you flash a shy, crooked smile at me.

I seize your hand that strokes my face and I squeeze it hard. I squeeze it as if it were the only rational proof I had that you were here, by my side, for real.

"Cuddy…" I whisper with a shortness of breath.

I'm trying to process what's happening. I briefly scan the room, I notice the darkness outside.

"Shhh!" you say softly, "That's okay. You hurt your head when you crash into that streetlamp-"

"Streetlamp?"

"The one just outside the bar where you hid instead of being with me like any normal, supportive boyfriend, while I was supposed to get recognition from my peers…"

I'm staring at you with my mouth agape. All I can do is staring at you. And then I notice the evening gown, the make-up, the hairdo, the jewelry.

"Wilson looked for you in every bar there is in the city," you carry on, speaking to yourself more than to me. "Thank God, you didn't have time to drive any farther than the first corner! You could have hurt yourself so much worse, or someone else… you're lucky you…"

You stop in the middle of your sentence and I throw my head back into the pillow. I close my eyes. I take a long, deep breath. My whole body is shaking and I'm sure you see it.

"I should have known you'd never come," you say with a low voice. "I don't even know why I've asked you in the first place. You hate award ceremonies. I pressured you and…"

I straighten up and I open my eyes again.

"I've done so many horrible things…" I say, dazed.

"Well, the cops are standing outside the room. The streetlamp you crashed into is public property. You're probably going to jail for that you know?" you declare with fake seriousness, with your chin up, all the while trying to hide the mischievousness of your smile. "And I'm not bailing you out or perjuring myself for you this time."

I smile back at you, sheepishly. The first smile since I woke up and it feels like infinity of time has passed. All those horrible, nightmarish visions I had still echo inside my head in flashes and they are so vivid! It feels like I'm just back from the worse trip in Hell, but I'm not quite sure yet it's over…

I squeeze your hand tighter and I pull on your arm gently to make you come closer. You lean down and you carefully sit on the edge of the bed next to me.

"I'm sorry," I say riddled with guilt and the sudden unquestionable gravity of my tone takes you off guard.

You tilt you head to the side and you look me right in the eyes, intrigued. I take another deep breath to help me gather some courage and I look back at you, intensely.

"I wanted to come, I swear. But…"

You shake your head and you remove your hand from mine.

"But you told yourself you'd be better off drinking scotch, because it's so much better than drinking champagne with a bunch of hypocrites dressed in tuxedos."

"I love scotch," I say lamely, looking down.

"You love your loneliness."

"No!"

I almost shouted and it made you gasp.

In that precise moment, though an awkward feeling of fear still pervades me, I have no doubt whatsoever about what I'm going to say. Just absolute certainty.

"I love _you_."

You sigh.

"I know."

"You know why I left the bar?"

"Because they refused to serve you any more alcohol?" you ask sarcastically.

"Because I wanted to see you. I wanted to talk to you."

"You knew where to find me…" you grumble reproachfully.

I'm struggling against the overwhelming feelings that flood inside me all at once, but I need to say it. No matter what happens, I need you to know how I feel.

"Since you and I got together, I'm not half as good a doctor as I used to be."

You frown dubiously, obviously surprised by my lead-in.

"I let patients die. They died because I didn't pay enough attention to them. And… I didn't pay enough attention because of you!"

"What? Are you kidding me? You're telling me I am the reason why your patients are dying?"

"Yes. In a way you are… not directly responsible but, you're the one on my mind, not them and _that _kills people…" I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, and I look at you, so beautiful in that dress, while you're staring back at me, totally dumbfounded. "What I'm trying to say, Cuddy… What I'm trying to say is that **_I_** am responsible for that but I accept it; because _I choose you. I choose being happy with you. I will always choose you._"

"Is that supposed to make me feel better? What kind of a crap is that?"

"That crap is how I love you," I say solemnly. "That crap is how loving you has made me. Cuddy, I'm screwed-up. I'm not a good boyfriend. And I'll never be one. I will undeniably bail on you again, come the next charity dinner or-"

"Oh shut up! We're not having this conversation again, not now-"

"I'm not going to change."

A long shiver runs down my spine as I remember the horrific implications of that statement, but you suddenly soften and you look at me with serenity.

"I don't want you to change-"

"You keep saying that but-"

"There's no 'but.' I keep saying that because I mean it. And I don't care if you don't come to charity dinners with me… Well, no scratch that! I do care, but not as much as I want you to stay who you are, because who you are is the reason why I fell in love with you in the first place. I don't want you to change because I don't need you to change. So just stop rationalizing everything like you knew what's going to happen-"

"What if I knew?" I challenge you.

"That's impossible. Nobody knows the future. Nobody can tell for sure what's going to happen-"

"I can," I say adamantly. "I can tell you exactly how it'll go. I _saw_ it." I gulp nervously and I can't hold back the tears that gather in my eyes.

You instantly lean towards me and you scrutinize my face with concern, searching for my gaze. I look away.

"You're going to leave me. You're going to leave me because I'm going to screw up, again and again, until you'll no longer be able to deal with it, because you deserve better-"

"This is bullshit!" you say angrily. "You're a pain in the ass House, and trust me I am _very _aware of that, especially tonight, but…" You smile tenderly at me and you cup my jaw with your hand, "I chose _you_, too. Why can't you remember that I chose you? Yes, maybe I have no guarantee that it was the right choice, nobody would, but I have _absolute certainty_ that it was the one I wanted to make. And I don't regret it."

I bit my lips and I look down, briefly, avoiding your gaze. I'm still a bit fuzzy and I feel overwhelmed by too many emotions.

"I was being a monster," I say staggered by the memory of what losing you, even if it wasn't real, had turned me into. "I could have killed you…"

You take a deep breath and you wiggle embarrassingly on the edge of the bed, visibly uncomfortable. I study your face suspiciously, suddenly aware that you've been quite unimpressed with the horrors I'm evoking and I shot my head to the side to check the perfusion.

"Wait! What did you give me?"

"Zolpidem. 20mg," you say guiltily, but with a daring look.

"You dosed me with a high dosage of a sleeping drug, when you know I'm a recovering addict?" I exclaim, incredulous.

"It's sleeping pills!" you defend yourself. "Not morphine…"

"I almost had a psychotic break!" I protest outraged, but somehow weirdly relieved.

"Oh please! I'm sure the indecent amount of alcohol you absorbed is more to blame. You were completely wasted when the ambulance brought you here. The intern stitched you up without anesthesia and you didn't even feel a thing."

"I'm used to dealing with pain."

"That didn't prevent you from insulting him, though."

"And that's your excuse for drugging me?"

"I didn't drug you, I put you to sleep."

You smirk and I puff.

"I was mad at you," you add a bit shamefaced.

I sigh.

"I guess I deserved it." I say self-consciously.

You slide on the bed cautiously and you come closer to me.

"Was it really so bad?" you inquire softly.

"Worse than any of my worst nightmares."

"What happened?"

I stare intensely at you and I take your hand inside mine.

"You don't wanna know."

You silently nod in agreement and you lean down to kiss me. The sensation of your lips on my lips is so incredibly wonderful. I thought I'd lost that sensation forever and it had rendered me completely crazy; now tasting the flavor of your cherry lips again feels so incredibly soothing, it's almost frightening. I can't live without you, and if there's one thing I should remember after tonight it has to be that undeniable evidence.

"Cuddy?"

"Yes."

"Are you feeling okay? Have you noticed anything unusual with you lately?" I ask with concern.

"What? What are you talking about? Is that another one of your tricks because-"

"Please," I'm pleading and you see I'm serious.

"No. I'm fine. I'm… just tired and-"

"And what?"

"Nothing, I maybe have one minor early UTI-"

I stiffen and my sudden worried look is stressing you out.

"House, what is it?"

"Tomorrow, when I'm out of here, we'll do an ultrasound."

"Come on! It's nothing. I'll take a dose of antibiotics and I'll be fine."

"We're doing it," I insist stubbornly. "That'll take less than 30 minutes and then you'll know exactly what it is."

"I can do that myself—"

"No. I wanna be there. I wanna be there for you."

"Ok then," you agree docilely.

"Ok," I repeat, and relief spread over my face.

You frown, looking intrigued and slightly pleased at the same time.

"You're still drunk, aren't you?"

"On the contrary! I've never been that lucid!"

You laugh throatily and your eyes glitter with amusement. God, how I love your face when you laugh!

You kiss me again, sensually, leisurely, nibbling at my bottom lips until it starts to drive me dangerously mad, and I moan between your lips. You straighten up and you look at me with a mischievous gaze.

"You taste like bourbon," you say, licking your lips teasingly.

"You sure you don't mistake it with the taste of Zolpidem?"

"Zolpidem has no taste." You roll your eyes.

I smile.

You stand up and you smooth your dress out and adjust a strand of your hair that fell off your sophisticated bun.

"I have to go," you say a bit regretfully, walking towards the door.

"Cuddy!" I call after you with a trembling voice. "Don't leave me now, please. Stay."

You stop at the threshold and you look at me with sorry eyes.

"I have a daughter, who I should have come home to…" You give a quick glance at your watch, "almost three hours ago already."

"She'll be fine."

"Yeah." You nod a few times, and you suddenly scrutinize me with an inquisitive look. "By the way," you ask, "Rachel called me 'bloody scallywag' tonight, do you know where that comes from?"

"Nope! I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about!" I answer roguishly.

"House, she's three…"

"It's from a cartoon."

"A cartoon? What kind of a cartoon is that?" you exclaim disapprovingly.

"The kind that makes her forget her mom is still at work for some late board meetings when it's way past her bedtime and she needs someone to tuck her in…" I answer without missing a bit.

"Oh..."

"Yeah, _Oh_..."

You chew on your lower lip and you look down guiltily. You look absolutely gorgeous. I can't believe how I could have let you go alone to that dinner. Every man would be proud to be seen with a woman like you holding their arm. You're graceful, fragile, strong, fierce and I'm a jerk to have stood you up like I did…

"Did you like my surprise?" I say, suddenly remembering about that special thing I'd planned for you.

"Your surprise? What surprise? If you think almost falling into ethylic coma is-"

"The Mariachi band."

You mouth drops open and you stare at me flabbergasted.

"I hired one to play some of that noisy Mexican music you like," I explain casually.

"You hired a Mariachi band?" You look astounded and I inwardly savor your undeniable enchantment.

"Those hypocrites in tuxedos already got you the watch so, what other choice did I have?" I add, smiling. "You're lucky I'm less tight-fisted than the Board. Obviously."

You puff and you beam and then you pout, looking disappointed.

"I missed them," you say sulkily. "I had to leave the party earlier because my drunken boyfriend crashed his car into a streetlamp."

"What an infamous boyfriend!" I exclaim, faking indignation.

"Yeah. I know something he could do to make it up to me, though."

"Really? What is that?"

You hold your chin up and you send me a challenging look.

"You're going to play your guitar and sing 'La Cucaracha' for me wearing only a sombrero every morning of every day for at least a week."

"I don't have a sombrero."

"I'll buy you one."

"I don't know 'La Cucaracha'"

"Then find something else to play."

"Van Halen?"

You look me straight in the eyes and you smile that incredibly sexy smile of yours.

"La Cucaracha, Van Halen? Who cares? As long as you're naked under your sombrero…"

~ FIN ~

* * *

><p><strong><em>AN_**

_Ok, so that was it!_

_I hope choosing the dream option wasn't too lame or pathetic, but frankly? IMO, after the irreversible character slaughter they've done with the finale and basically almost the entire season, (both to House and Cuddy) there'ez not many creative possibilities that'd make sense and allow a plausible return to normalcy now… and by not many, I almost mean 'none'…_

_Anyway, please share your thoughts!_

_Carpe Diem ~ Maya_


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